


Things unheard, things unsaid

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, First Kiss, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Mild Smut, Post-TSoT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is happily married now, at least that's what everyone thinks. He and Sherlock have drifted apart since the wedding and it hurts, for both of them. What will it take for these two to finally talk to each other, to finally say and hear what needs to be said and heard?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things unheard, things unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a tiny wee one-shot and turned into a bit of an angsty beast. *shrugs* Set post-TSoT - my attempt to give the boys a happier ending (but not without putting them through the wringer a bit first). 
> 
> My infinite thanks to superblue, who helps me no end with my writing. All mistakes (including any medical inaccuracies!), typos and any general crappy-ness is entirely my own. I don't own any rights to these characters, I just love to play with them for funsies. Come visit me on tumblr (jamlockk there too, and I'm all jammy and kitteny)

 

It had only been a month or so since the honeymoon, but John was already fed up of married bliss. Not that you’d be able to tell, of course. It was just that things had gotten so crushingly domestic, and well, normal. He supposed that was what life was actually meant to be like, when you weren’t chasing after a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath best friend who’d recently come back from the dead.

John wouldn’t change a thing about said sociopath, especially that last part. Sherlock truly had come back from the dead, and John’s first reaction…well admittedly it was a bit of a shock, to see him standing there in the restaurant like that. Just…there; like he’d never been away, really. Of course he’d thought it would be funny just to appear at John’s side, Sherlock never did have a particularly good grasp of what might be deemed socially acceptable. John was angry, and he’d made his point. He had felt slightly guilty once he and Mary arrived home, he’d perhaps been a bit more forceful than he intended. Still, the prick had been dead for two years, the bloody nose he got from his former flatmate was probably the least of his worries.

It was so good to have him back. John was secretly elated, after two years of grey and beige it felt as though colour had seeped back into the world with his return. Bit clichéd, that, but that didn’t make it any less true. Those two years had forced John to confront himself, to think carefully about why his grief had been so deep, so crippling. Late one night (or early one morning, depending on how you looked at it), as sleep evaded him, he’d sat down at the kitchen table in the flat he and Mary shared and tried to pin it down.

At first, he’d thought it was not only the loss of Sherlock but the loss of the life he’d become accustomed to; the sense of purpose he’d found alongside the consulting detective. He’d felt so selfish at that thought, which only made it worse – like he’d only ever taken from Sherlock, never given. He soon remembered that wasn’t true; Sherlock himself said John was a great conductor of light. In some ways it was true that John’s presence helped stimulate that great mind, and helped Sherlock make those vital connections. The memory of that “apology” made John smile, despite himself.

John had never said it before, but Sherlock had been his best friend. So that must be why he felt his loss right at his core. But his grief had never really diminished; though as time passed John was able to move on, to rebuild himself to some extent. He found Mary, he had his job at the surgery, and he was helped patients and was useful again. But he still felt as though he had faded, like a newspaper left in the sun too long.

It was then that he realised, he wasn’t grieving the loss of his friend. He was grieving the loss of his other half…his soulmate. He’d grunted in amused disgust at the soppy stupidity of that; he didn’t really believe in soulmates. He could hear Sherlock’s haughty snort of derision.

_Sentiment, John._

Yes, well, he supposed he could indulge it, just for a moment. His sentiments towards his dead best friend were pretty powerful. Those three words rose up in his throat and he’d jumped up from the table, bashing his knee against the underside, his heart hammering in his chest.

Recalling that particular epiphany brought John crashing back to the present, and he shifted a little in his seat. That was the trouble with getting the tube to and from work; too much time spent avoiding the eyes of your fellow commuters and getting lost in your own thoughts.

He left the tube and took the ten minute walk back to their flat at a brisk pace, trying to clear his head. Since Sherlock had come back he’d only had a handful of cases, and John had been all too eager to help out. Mary was understanding in the beginning, and was delighted when Sherlock took such an interest in planning their wedding. John had been a bit puzzled by that, but Mary reassured him that she appreciated the help and Sherlock had exceptional taste.

John hadn’t expected them to hit it off quite so well, Sherlock had made a sport of driving away all of John’s previous girlfriends. None of them had quite managed to take to his tall, imperious flatmate. Mary was different; she’d encouraged John to seek out Sherlock’s company again. John was eager to find a balance in his life for both of them: his best friend and the woman he wanted to be his wife. The nagging feeling in the back of his mind that it was all too good to be true surfaced every now and then, but he pushed it down, to be ignored and forgotten.  

The wedding day had arrived so quickly, and then flown by in a whirlwind of anticipation, excitement and the narrowly-avoided murder of one of the guests. Major Sholto hadn’t stayed for the reception, but that was. He’d lost touch with so many of his army buddies, and he and James had more history than most.  John had been glad to see him, and although he hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they were in touch again, he didn’t have high expectations. It was so easy to drift apart from friends that way, he mused sadly. He was determined not to lose touch with any more friends, whatever people said about marriage changing you. And now it wasn’t just being married that would change things, John and Mary were starting a family.

After Sherlock’s unexpected deduction at the wedding reception, Mary had become a little jittery around the detective, as though nervous that Sherlock would suddenly start monitoring her diet and slipping folic acid and vitamins into her tea. Given Sherlock’s keen involvement in the wedding, John supposed her worries weren’t entirely unfounded. There was plenty of time to prepare for the baby’s arrival though, and to make sure Mary was comfortable with any “assistance” Sherlock might wish to offer. As a doctor, John was sure he could impress upon Sherlock that there would be a time and a place for helping. John would tread the line between them carefully, so that his wife was cared for and his best friend understood the limitations their child would have on John’s time and energies. In any case, he looked forward to watching Sherlock with his child, a new life coming into theirs.

They’d visit Baker Street, John and the baby, see Mrs Hudson. She’d coo and give them cuddles, then they’d all go upstairs to 221B, first making sure there were no noxious experiments in progress. John would walk in and Sherlock would be typing at his desk or otherwise occupied. John would introduce the baby, and then pass her into Sherlock’s arms before he could protest. John chuckled at the thought of Sherlock trying to hold a crying newborn. He could see the tall detective cradling the tiny child in his arms, trying to soothe the screaming infant before looking at John helplessly and saying he couldn’t possibly think with that racket going on and for John to do something about it immediately. He’d smile at Sherlock and walk over to help calm both him and the baby. John suddenly felt a melancholy tightness spread across his chest. He didn’t want to examine that feeling too closely.

Shaking his head at himself, he unlocked the flat door and called out to his wife.

“In the kitchen!”

John wandered through to find Mary sitting at the kitchen table, his laptop open and her nose inches from the screen. He frowned.

“You don’t need reading glasses that badly, surely?” he said lightly. Mary glanced up at him sharply, her eyes narrowed as she inspected him. This was new, only in the last week or so, she’d started doing it in a fairly flippant fashion; checking up on him all the time, blowing hot then cold towards him in the blink of an eye; but it soon developed into a regular habit. John was a little unsettled at the weird new behaviour, but didn’t give it much thought.

“Came straight home then?” she asked innocently. She sat back in the chair and settled her hands over her stomach. John nodded, moved to the kettle and flicked the switch. He glanced down at the screen, she’d opened his emails and read them all. Granted there were only a few, mostly comments on his blog post about Sherlock’s return, a spam tax rebate, and something from Harry about Clara’s birthday next month.

Why was she so hell-bent on reading his emails? What was she expecting to find there?

He looked down at Mary, her mouth was pinched closed. She caught his gaze and slowly opened her hand in front of her. John tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. Mary sighed in frustration and closed her hand into a fist.

“I know you’ve heard from _him_. You said you hadn’t seen him but I’m sure he texted you. He always _texts_ you.” Her voice was low but fierce. John was a little taken aback, but held her gaze. Mary sneered at him, and reached out her hand again, clearly waiting for John to surrender his phone.

John sighed. Her behaviour was a little odd but there was nothing to hide so he didn’t see any harm in handing the phone over. He really hadn’t heard from Sherlock, actually, since they’d got back from their honeymoon. He had texted Sherlock to say they were back, and received a quick but curt acknowledgement. He was getting a little worried, but assumed Sherlock was merely keeping himself busy with cases from Lestrade. Truth be told, he was disappointed not to be more involved in the Work but figured Sherlock would contact him when he was needed. For now he should focus on his new wife, and should be glad of the peace and quiet of life in the suburbs. He unhappily admitted to himself, in the wee hours, that life in the suburbs was not all it was cracked up to be.

He watched her scroll through his messages, and went back to making his tea. He wondered briefly what reaction he might get if he pulled the same stunt, demanding to see Mary’s phone. She had been out several nights “with the girls” in the past few weeks, but John could hardly begrudge a few trips to restaurants and the cinema. At least, that’s what nights out “with the girls” had been before they got married.

Things had been good between them on the honeymoon, if not as passionate as one might expect a newlywed couple to be. John took it as a sign that they were just adjusting to married life, and the unexpected pressure of starting a family sooner than either of them had expected. But if he was honest with himself, it was clear that Mary was more than a little rattled at the pregnancy. She let him touch her, but it quickly became routine and almost perfunctory. It wasn’t as though she was unwilling, and neither was he, it just seemed that the intense desire that had characterised their first weeks together had completely vanished. It definitely didn’t help that John’s mind had begun to picture dark curls and smooth, pale skin in place of Mary’s straight, blonde bob and bronzed complexion.

John’s fantasies of Sherlock had increased in frequency and he found that he had to slip out of bed and away from his sleeping wife to indulge privately in the bathroom. His days in the army had given him plenty of experience at pleasuring himself silently, shoving a fist into his mouth as he came hot hand sticky over his other hand. Usually his imagination could run wild at 3am, and in his head he fucked Sherlock all over 221B Baker Street; in the bed, the shower, on the sofa, over the kitchen table (pushing all scientific equipment to the floor with a satisfying crash), in front of the fireplace with the skull looking on. John pounded with wild abandon into his best friend, a brief burst of pleasure in his release.

But his fantasies often went beyond only a quick fuck. In fact, just last night, John had dreamed of Sherlock.

 _They’ve finished the case, John picked up their food on the way home. They’re in the kitchen, eating at the table (Sherlock stealing bits of John’s poppadum_ _and dipping them into the chutney with those long violinist’s fingers). He’s talking at a ridiculous speed, gesturing with one hand as he reaches for the poppadums again with the other. John lets him grab a piece and watches as Sherlock raises it to that gorgeous mouth._

_John licks his own lips and Sherlock sees it, his eyes keenly focused on John’s tongue flicking out and along the line of his mouth before vanishing again._

_The air between them is suddenly heavier, as though a thick, muggy heat has settled around them, pressing into their bodies and causing prickles all over their skin. John looks up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, those intense cerulean eyes looking back at him through dark lashes, sending tingles up and down John’s spine._

_Sherlock’s attention flickers back to John’s mouth again. I’m going to kiss him, John thinks, and then he is. He’s kissing Sherlock and Sherlock’s kissing him back, hesitantly at first and then, as John soothingly coaxes him with soft laps of his tongue, Sherlock parts his lips just a little. John takes full advantage, deepening the kiss and drawing tiny gasps of pleasure from Sherlock. John’s left hand is winding through Sherlock’s thick curls, wonderfully soft between his fingers, and his right is stroking Sherlock’s face, his thumb caressing a sharp, delicate cheekbone._

_It’s tender and sincere, and Sherlock sighs softly and melts into John’s gentle touch and worshipful tongue. John feels heat pooling in his belly and his groin, tendrils of desire unfurling all over his body, and suddenly it’s not enough. They’re not close enough, John needs to feel Sherlock, all of him, wants Sherlock to seep into his every pore, into every inch of him. He wants absorb Sherlock into him, fuse their bodies together so he never has to feel any distance between them._

_Moaning as the want builds in his veins, John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hair and pulls out of the kisses just enough to mumble against Sherlock’s mouth. Bedroom, now._

_He opens his eyes to see Sherlock. He looks surprised and unsure - he’s still holding back, as if expecting rejection, like John might pull away entirely and leave just like that._

_John wraps his arms around Sherlock and pulls him from his chair into a tight embrace, just holding him for a moment. The feel of Sherlock’s body so close, knowing that everything he wants is in his arms, that there’s just a thin layer of purple silk between them, brings John’s desire flooding back in an instant. All John can think about is getting Sherlock to the bedroom and taking him apart, overwhelming Sherlock’s neglected body and silencing his restless mind, so all he can feel is John._

_He pulls Sherlock down the hall and into the bedroom, manoeuvring him towards the bed as he kicks the bedroom door shut behind them. He’s kissing Sherlock again, and this time the tenderness has been replaced by sheer desire, their mouths meeting hot and wet, lips sliding over each other, hands seeking bare skin and unbroken contact._

_John fumbles at the shirt buttons in his haste, yanking his own jumper and shirt over his head and tossing them unceremoniously away. Sherlock gasps as John tears the half-open shirt from his body, buttons scattering on the hardwood floor. John smiles and steps back to admire his handiwork._

_Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed, his skin is flushed, a lovely pink hue on his neck and cheeks contrasting wonderfully with the unblemished marble of his pale chest. His eyes are wide with desire, dark, black pools in the centres ringed by sea-foam blue. He’s breathing a little heavily, his curls are artfully mussed from John’s fingers running through them. His luscious lips are red and swollen from John’s passionate kisses._

_He’s so beautiful, and it makes John ache in his bones. His love for this infuriating, brilliant, exquisite man moves him to his very core. He can’t stand it any longer, and he surges forward to claim Sherlock’s mouth once more, hands immediately flying to Sherlock’s trousers seeking to remove the last material barriers between them._

_He strips Sherlock’s trousers and his own, freeing their erections and rubbing skin on skin. Sherlock moans deeply and loudly in John’s mouth, the sound making John’s cock twitch in response. John wants to hear more, wants to sear himself into Sherlock’s mind and body through pure physical pleasure._

_John pushes Sherlock to lie back in the middle of the bed and leans down to straddle him, mouthing at one of Sherlock’s nipples, flicking his tongue across the hardening flesh and sucking it gently between his teeth. The resulting gasp is exactly what he wants, so he does it again before switching sides to the other nipple. Sherlock’s skin is warm and soft under his calloused hands, and it’s driving John’s desire even higher._

_He licks his palm and reaches down between them to wrap his hand around their cocks, bringing them together. Both of their mouths drop open at the sensation, and they kiss messily as John’s fist begins moving. John knows they won’t last long but he doesn’t care, he just wants to make Sherlock shatter under his touch. He’s close, they both are, but as John twists his hand slightly, he reaches down to brush his other hand along Sherlock’s thigh and tugs gently on his balls._

_Sherlock cries out, and comes hard over John’s fist, his eyes clenched shut and his whole body shuddering as John lets himself go and strokes Sherlock through his orgasm. John opens his eyes and sees Sherlock gazing back at him, and it’s enough to send him over the edge. His orgasm tears through him and he comes harder than he can ever remember doing, all over Sherlock’s pale stomach._

_The sight of Sherlock so undone, so open and trusting and vulnerable, is perfect. John looks down at Sherlock, and his love pours inexorably into the man beneath him._

John had woken with a start. Realising his pants were wet and sticky, he plodded into the bathroom to clean up. The guilt sank in soon after, and John crept back to bed to fall into an uneasy sleep.

Now, standing in their kitchen he knows that no matter how he might feel about Mary’s developing paranoia, John couldn’t claim that the strain on their marriage was coming solely from her side. After all, she wasn’t the one sneaking to the bathroom in the middle of the night, or dithering at work constantly checking her phone for a text demanding: “Baker Street. Now. – SH”.

Mary finished scrolling through his texts and, apparently satisfied, and handed his phone back before taking over the tea-making duties. She passed John his mug and they both retreated to the sofa in front of the telly. They sat and sipped in silence, watching the 6 o’clock news. Mary got up and made a quick veggie curry, which they ate at the kitchen table, again in silence. The atmosphere in the flat was cool, but after the washing up was finished, Mary came to John’s side on the sofa, where he was reading a James Bond novel. She nestled up to him and he set his book aside to curl an arm around her, letting her wriggle in closer to his body. They watched a crappy movie and went up to bed together.

John watched her change into a loose nightshirt, she seemed so small and fragile. She caught him staring, and smiled softly. John grinned in return, stripping off his shirt, trousers, socks, and then sliding under the duvet. Mary joined him, wiggling her toes. He kissed her gently, running his hands over her arms. She kissed back, brushing her fingers across his cheek, but then she pulled away and rolled over. She was soon breathing deeply and evenly, lost in sleep. John lay awake, thinking.

If she was that deeply asleep, he could reach over and grab her phone from the bedside table. He could pop down to the kitchen to stop the light from the screen waking her, and read through her messages in secret. He sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. He might be willing to share his phone without a second thought, but he wouldn’t go snooping through hers. He trusted her, and it did hurt to think that even in a small way she didn’t trust him. He still suspected there may be something more to this, almost like a diversion technique. If John was thinking about what incriminating evidence there might be against him, perhaps he wouldn’t think to ask about her texts or emails? He smiled wryly in the darkness, double or triple bluffs? It was ridiculous.

He rolled onto his side and tucked his chin to his chest. He hadn’t done anything but he couldn’t help feeling ashamed anyway. Was it cheating to fantasise about your best friend? To admit to yourself that your feelings for your (male) best friend were stronger than your feelings for your wife?

If it was, then John was definitely guilty.

It didn’t matter, he decided. A few harmless fantasies were ultimately meaningless.  It’s not like his…his _feelings_ for Sherlock were ever likely to be returned, and he planned never to act on it anyway.

It would always remain unsaid and unheard.

******    

It had only been a month or so since the honeymoon, but already Sherlock was completely lost. He had thrown himself into planning John’s wedding and now it was over, reality crushed in on him with unyielding force. John was enjoying married bliss now, he would no longer spend so much time chasing after a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath best friend who’d recently come back from the dead.

In hindsight, his stunt at the restaurant had perhaps been poorly timed. From a distance John had seemed nervous, fidgeting in his seat as he waited for his girlfriend to re-join him. He had always seen without observing, so Sherlock was unsurprised but frustrated when his first attempt to draw John’s attention had failed miserably. The second attempt worked though…

John had been shocked, obviously. His reaction had been… unpleasant. Seeing the look in John’s eyes he couldn’t have expected anything less. John was, after all, a military man and Sherlock should perhaps have seen that he might not take springing the “not dead” thing terribly well. Sherlock’s back had still been a mess form his time in Serbia, but the physical pain from wrenching the stitches and wounds had paled compared to the feeling of John close to him. Admittedly John’s hands around his throat hadn’t really featured in his imagination, but Sherlock would take any contact he would get.

And therein lay the rub. As much as he tried to deny their existence, his feelings for John would simply not abate. If anything, they had increased a thousand-fold on his return. As nervous as John had been in the restaurant that night, it was nothing compared to the swirling mixture of anticipation, joy and cold dread Sherlock had pushed to the back of his mind palace on finally laying eyes on his ex-army doctor after two years apart.

Then there was Mary. Sherlock could see that John loved her, and then there was the wedding, and John and Mary were so happy. This was what John’s life should be, this is what ordinary people wanted. John was anything but ordinary, but he had chosen an ordinary life. Sherlock should hate it, the boring, straightforward, stupid _dullness_ of it, but he couldn’t. If this was what John needed to be happy, Sherlock would simply draw away, a slowly fading ill-omened cloud, leaving behind soft blue skies and John’s own warm glow. He would swallow the black despair scraping at his throat, force it down, its razor-sharp edges clawing into his chest, wrapping around his heart.

He had tried to return to his previous state over the past month, tried to regain control over his emotions and distance himself once more, but he now recognised it was impossible to go back. He had tried to identify and delete those elements of John that had made him feel this way in the first place, but it was useless. Even after hours of scrubbing through the halls and rooms of his mind palace, all thoughts of John swarmed around him, refusing to leave. It was as though they had become written into his very material, become part of his genetic structure, and he could no more change it than he could rewrite the coding that gave him his ridiculous milky skin, or ever-changeable eyes. The details and memories were a part of him now, all he could do is store and file them in the hopes that they would not be set loose to destroy him, to burn him from the inside out.

At night his racing mind replayed John and Mary more and more frequently, kissing, holding each other, over and over, taunting him. Sherlock became desperate, and tried to reach an old contact to seek an old solution to quiet his mind. Although the solution had been easily supplied, he could not bring himself to use it. Instead, he left it on the kitchen table, and sat down to stare at it. So much misery, in so small an act. As he watched, his brain helpfully supplied its chemical formula, how it would break down in his system, the symptoms his body would be subjected to, cycling through the information in an endlessly repeating pattern. Finally, he’d picked up the small vial and dropped it in the sink, where it promptly shattered. He then ran the taps and washed away the evidence, picking out the glass shards, barely noticing as they gently sliced into his fingertips.

A sudden burst of anguished inventiveness had Sherlock reaching for his laptop, pulling up articles on removing love from one’s life. The results had been uninspiring to say the least, tailored mostly to teenaged girls. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock had persevered, seeking academic articles on the psychology and biochemistry of love as an emotion. He found very little to aid him, returning in frustration to the women’s magazines and forums. His discomfort only grew as he read: give yourself time, allow yourself to heal, don’t spend hours reminiscing, write a journal, let yourself cry. Unable to keep the scorn from his face, he rolled his eyes at the skull on the mantelpiece and continued.

Remember you will love again.

Impossible. Unacceptable. Stupid. It was John; only John, always John. Sherlock didn’t realise there were tears on his face until a drop splashed softly on the keyboard. He snapped the laptop closed in disgust and retreated to his bedroom to curl up on the bed and will himself into nothingness.

******     

Sherlock lay gazing up at the ceiling, absorbing the 3am stillness outside and lazily reciting the periodic table to try to calm his mind. His thoughts kept returning to teaching John to dance, how his hands felt in Sherlock’s and on his waist, how he bit his lip in concentration, how his smile and his eyes seemed for one fleeting second as though they were only for Sherlock.

Sherlock wondered how it would feel for that to be true, how would it feel to be held in John’s arms? John’s frame may at first glance seem small, but his body was compact and solid, muscle and strength hidden beneath the woolly jumpers and gentle bedside manners. John was a puzzle, Sherlock often marvelled at his extraordinarily deceptive layers. How would it feel to kiss John? Would there be as many layers in the press of his lips, the slide of his tongue, the caress of his fingers weaving through Sherlock’s hair? Would he be gentle, stroking and teasing, or would he be firm, tugging roughly at the curls and fiercely claiming Sherlock’s mouth?

How would John’s skin feel under Sherlock’s fingertips? How would Sherlock’s skin react under John’s warm, strong hands? What would John look like naked? Would he let Sherlock touch, lick, kiss his scars? Oh, that… that would be fascinating.

Sherlock shifted on the bed, feeling a tightness in his trousers. He got up and changed into pyjama bottoms, t-shirt and dressing gown, his brain feeling foggy and his stomach warm and heavy. Sherlock raised a hand to his face, long, elegant fingers playing about his lips, his other hand resting lightly on his groin, feeling the hardness there quiver. His thoughts returned to John, here beside him, allowing Sherlock to roam over his form. Would let Sherlock explore his body, tasting him, cataloguing his scent, memorising his moans? How would his cock feel in Sherlock’s hands? How would it taste, lying heavy on his tongue as John breached his mouth? What would John’s release taste like, hot and bitter against the back of Sherlock’s throat? A moan tried to escape through his parted lips, and suddenly warmth spread out across his groin, his discharge sticky in his pyjamas.

He lay there a moment, processing and cataloguing his body’s physical responses to thoughts of John. He felt light, and yet heavy at the same time. His transport was almost screaming for rest, the pull of sleep attempting to overwrite his brain. He stripped off the sticky pyjamas and slipped under the duvet. The sheets were cold, reminding him that no matter his imagination, he was alone. This fantasy was “bit not good”, he could hear John scolding him. Sherlock tried to block out his previous pleasure; replace it, evoke an old pain from those two years away to punish his transport for its transgressions. He didn’t deserve John this way, tried to remember that John would never be here with him. John was with Mary now, his kisses, his touch, his _heart_ , only for her. The black despair rose up again, but Sherlock had drifted into an uneasy sleep. 

******     

_It’s so cold, the mud and leaves are sticking to his bare feet as he darts helplessly between the trees, trying to avoid the dogs just barely behind him. He pauses, leaning against a tree, his breath catching as he tries to remain quiet and undetected. The blood from the wounds on his back is congealing, dripping slowly down to the waistband of his trousers. He can no longer feel their sting, the cold is sapping the sensation from his nerves, making his limbs heavy and awkward as he shivers to maintain some level of heat in his body. The pain in his chest is familiar, the longing for a short, blonde companion by his side, gun drawn, eyes dancing with the rush of adrenaline._

_There’s no companion here, his brain reminds him coldly. You left him behind. You jumped, he fell. This is your fault. He wasn’t safe, because of you. You brought this to him, you strode excitedly into the deepening waves, seeking the thrill of the puzzle, wanting to play the game; he followed you and he almost drowned. That pain in your chest? That’s him, his safety, his happiness. You deserve it._

_He nods, acknowledging the truth of those words. He has to escape this though, if he’s caught he knows what’ll happen. He hears the voices getting closer, hears the dogs panting, growling, and straining at their leashes. He wills his legs to move, but they refuse. Stubborn, like him. He tries to push himself away from the tree, stumbles and trips, getting a face full of cold, wet leaves for his trouble. He manages to stand, his muscles quivering and protesting, when suddenly the light hits him and he’s on his knees._

_He closes his eyes and when he opens them he’s taking blows from all around him, his attackers unseen and silent. His arms are stretched out at either side, and although there’s no chains or ropes this time, he can’t move them. He hears a soft voice issue a command and the blows stop raining down on him instantly. He looks towards the direction the voice came from, and she steps forward, into the dirty light._

_Mary’s wearing her wedding dress, a soft smile playing about her lips. She’s right in front of him now, he can smell her flowery perfume wafting up through the lace of her dress. She reaches up and brushes his hair back from his face. He tries to recoil from her touch but his head won’t move. He’s suspended, immobile. She laughs low in her throat, and the sound reverberates in his ears, high-pitched and tinny, shredding his nerves. Tears prickle hotly and he can’t stop them spilling over, so he closes his eyes and drops his head to his chest._

_Somewhere behind her he hears a musical giggle, hears a lilting voice give another command, and there’s a small, sharp sound and a tiny flash behind his closed lids. He forces his eyes open again. He knows what’s coming; it was promised to him by that soft, deadly voice echoing somewhere in the darkness._

_Mary strokes his face and cups his cheek, bringing his eyes to hers. She raises her other hand, it’s holding a lit match. She smiles gleefully, reaches into his chest and brings the flame to his heart._

******     

Sherlock startled awake, clutching at his chest, still feeling Mary’s flame scorching through him. He stifled his cry of anguish and grasped his hands to his head, trying to clear away the dream. He could still smell Mary’s perfume and the burning match, the scents trapped in his nostrils. His hair was plastered to his head, his entire body shook and in the cold air of the bedroom the sweat prickled on his flesh. He sat there, duvet pooled around his middle and his hands fisted in his curls, waiting for the dream to fade.

“It’d burn quickly, there’s not much to it.” John’s voice was cold and flat in Sherlock’s head. He twisted the fingers in his hair tighter, the pain making his eyes water.

“I’m right though, it’s so small and shrivelled and worthless; you’re fooling yourself if you think that anyone could want it.” Sherlock heard John’s chuckle in his ears. “Really, Sherlock? There’s still a tiny part of you that thinks I could want it? Oh dear. _Sentiment, Sherlock_.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed against the fresh tears trying to well up. He cried so easily these days. John’s voice faded, but the mocking tone repeated through the corridors of the mind palace, bouncing off the walls and echoing in Sherlock’s ears. He was trying to calm his mind and regain his control over his emotions when he became aware of a tapping in the sitting room. He focused on the sound, a soft rhythm of metal against the hard wood floor. Irritation flared hot under his skin.

Sherlock threw back the covers, grabbing his dressing gown from the back of the door and throwing it on. He ripped the bedroom door open and stormed into the sitting room. His brother sat in John’s chair, idly, tapping the tip of his umbrella on the floor. Sherlock sneered at the back of his brother’s head, flopping down into his own chair opposite.

Mycroft sighed, and rested the umbrella against the chair beside him. The two of them sat there a moment, eyes flicking over one another, calculating. In the end it was Mycroft who spoke first.

“How are we feeling this morning, brother dear? Still not eating or sleeping properly, I see. Without the good doctor’s attentions, you have rather let yourself go.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft’s stupid, fat face. “And you brother dear? Still overindulging on the Danish pastries? Oh dear, your diet ruined by the stress of the South Korean elections?” Sherlock tutted, taking pride in the minute flash of irritation in Mycroft’s eyes.

Mycroft didn’t react to the obvious taunt, but reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a thin file, tossing it to Sherlock. Sherlock caught it, setting it on his knees and steepling his hands beneath his chin. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “This,” he began, gesturing to the file, “should provide a welcome distraction. It requires your immediate attention. It is a matter of some urgency, Sherlock. I should hope you are up to the task.”

Mycroft rose, picked up his umbrella and headed to the door. Sherlock stayed perfectly still, schooling his face to complete indifference. Mycroft paused, and Sherlock closed his eyes. His brother didn’t speak and the next sounds were his shoes on the stairs as he left.

Sherlock sat in the chair for a long time, wandering through his mind palace and resolutely refusing to look at the file. He hated doing work for Mycroft, it was predictable cloak-and-dagger intrigue, plodding political point-scoring. Dull.  His brother was right about one thing, though. A case would be a welcome distraction from his current misery, make him feel more like himself again. Maybe John…

“Maybe John what? Would come with you? Smile at you and call you brilliant?” Sherlock shook his head, pushing away the laughing voice in his head. He could text John, ask him to come along. Surely by now John would be bored of suburban life, stifled and reduced by the monotony. Yes, he would text John.

He stood up, letting the file drop to the floor and picked up his phone from the coffee table. Opening the message app, he paused, suddenly unsure of what to say. Under normal circumstances, he’d type: “Got a case. Baker Street. Now. – SH”. Under normal circumstances, he would send it and John would come rushing back from Tesco, or the surgery, and walk in ready to grab his gun and go. Or he’d rush to meet Sherlock at the crime scene. Under normal circumstances, John would already be here, shrugging on his coat and asking Sherlock for details of the case. Under normal circumstances.

Except, this was the new normal circumstances. John wasn’t at Baker Street, he was at home with Mary. He was having coffee with Mary, shrugging his coat on in his and Mary’s flat, kissing Mary goodbye to go to Tesco or the surgery. John was probably happy, not bored. The John inside his head murmured in agreement.

Fine. He could solve this one himself. He’d done it before John, he could focus on the work and continue as before.

Sherlock dropped his phone back on the table, walked over to his chair and picked up the file. He flicked through the contents, skim-reading them. Something about missing documents, not particularly important documents, but their loss was causing ruffled feathers and Mycroft apparently either didn’t have time or didn’t want to waste one of his minions on tracking them down. Obviously, one of the secretaries… wait. That didn’t fit with the timeline laid out here.

“No-one had accessed that computer for a month before they noticed the documents were missing. And the logs haven’t been tampered with, or doctored as far as Mycroft’s people can tell. So why use that terminal? Of course, trial run. John, we need to…” he trailed off, realising he was alone. Angrily he marched out of the sitting room to shower, dress and wrap up stupid Mycroft’s stupid case before lunchtime.

******     

Sherlock returned to the flat in a foul mood. The minion responsible for the documents going missing had turned purple with rage at being accused of the theft, before trying to make a break for it. If John had been there, he would’ve collared the poor man in less than 30 seconds, but as it was, Sherlock had had to chase him down, taking a box file to the face in the process. Mycroft had been his usual insufferable self when Sherlock had swept into his office and announced the case was solved, and Sherlock had spent the cab ride home incessantly drumming his fingers on the seat and texting Lestrade. The DI was in the middle of some personnel resource meeting or something, and would be in touch if anything came up. At least, that’s what he’d replied testily after Sherlock’s thirtieth text.

When the cab finally drew up in front of Baker Street, Sherlock threw some notes through the partition and stormed up to the flat, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s scolding about banging her doors and stomping feet on her stairs. His transport was being unruly, his stomach was demanding attention. He made his way into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on for tea and rummaged in the cupboards for biscuits. Finding a packet of digestives that seemed to be the right colour and had not succumbed to his stomach acid experiment of a few days ago, he perched on the seat beside his microscope waiting for the kettle to boil.

Although grateful that the John inside his head had gone mercifully silent, Sherlock was now combatting the beginnings of a spectacular headache. There was a constant, low hum in his ears, and despite the biscuits something akin to lead had settled in his abdomen. The kettle came to the boil with a click, and he poured the water through the loose leaf into his mug before remembering there was no milk, because John hadn’t gotten the milk.

“That’s because John isn’t here,” he said to the empty kitchen. In addition to the hum and the lead, he was now feeling John’s absence like the persistent itch of an amputated limb, a phantom presence which used to feel warm and solid beside him.

Abandoning the tea and biscuits on the sideboard, he threw himself down onto the sofa. His mind was racing, darting one way and another, and it was becoming unbearable. He was trying to find something to latch onto to ease the storm of his thoughts, when his phone pinged.

Sherlock sprang from the sofa and grabbed it from his coat pocket, eagerly opening the message. Not John, but it was Lestrade. He was on his way, bringing with him some cold cases he could use some help with. Sorry he hadn’t been in touch sooner. Sherlock threw the phone at the empty fireplace in disgust, feeling a dim satisfaction when it landed in the hearth and broke open, the screen cracked on one side.

This was Mycroft’s doing, he was sure of it. Mycroft had called his pet DI, snapped his fingers and demanded that Sherlock be kept busy with something to distract him lest he fall back into old habits. Lestrade had probably jumped at Mycroft’s command, finding things for Sherlock to do that should’ve been dealt with months or years ago by his incompetent team. Lestrade would be here soon, boxes in tow, and Sherlock would be expected to make himself useful by solving them, instead of making himself a nuisance by slipping and relapsing.

It wouldn’t come to that. Besides, he’d already discarded that option. The evidence was probably still in the bin somewhere, Mrs Hudson obviously hadn’t noticed when she emptied them the other day. The cases would be a distraction at least, he could throw himself into the Work. He did not need pity, especially from Lestrade. Closing his eyes and setting his expression to a mask of cold indifference, he lay back down on the sofa to wait.

No more than ten minutes had passed when he heard footsteps on the stairs, the DI jovially chatting with Mrs Hudson. Sherlock groaned internally, there was bound to be some tedious discussion of his behaviour and appearance of late. He was in no mood and furthermore, had very little energy left to deflect his landlady’s concerns.

Sure enough, her tutting and sighing at the mess filtered through to him from the kitchen. Sherlock ignored her, opening his eyes to watch Lestrade setting a large box of files and paperwork on the table. He seemed uncomfortable, running a hand through his hair. “Anything you get on these Sherlock, I’ll take it. There’s talk of some… well some personnel issues, and I’m trying to keep you away from Anderson and Donovan as much as I can.” He smiled ruefully. “You do tend to… well rub them up the wrong way sometimes and there’s only so much complaining I can take.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The affairs of your personnel are not my concern. Their incompetence, however, is very concerning,” he muttered sardonically. Lestrade sighed in frustration, running his hand through his hair again. “Yeah, well, just stay out of their way, alright? We’re getting some new recruits on the team soon, and Anderson and Donovan tend to make pretty free with their opinions. Plus, with your reputation…”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed in anger. “I do not need your protection, Lestrade, nor your pity. My reputation is what drives you to seek my help, it can surely withstand the petty mumblings of your underlings,” he spat. Lestrade fidgeted slightly at Sherlock’s sudden outburst. “I’m not pitying you, I’m trying to…” he started. “Look, I just need your help with these cases,” he said calmly, “And God knows you need something to work on. You look like shit, mate.” Sherlock glowered at him, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Of course Lestrade couldn’t help himself, worrying. He was transparent, concern for the consulting detective’s health masking concern for his continued usefulness. That’s all Sherlock could offer, his only purpose – providing Lestrade with an increased solve rate. That’s all he’d had to offer in the beginning, and now John was gone that’s all he had left.

“Just… Just don’t do anything stupid, alright?” Lestrade said wearily, turning to leave. “S’ok, Mrs Hudson, I’ll see myself out.” He closed the door quietly behind him. Sherlock took the lid from the first box. He could feel Mrs Hudson’s anxiety for him permeating the room and it was suffocating. She stepped towards him and said something about stew, or maybe soup, but the despair was rising once more and he couldn’t bear to have anyone nearby any longer. “Are you still here?” he snapped, throwing the lid of the box forcefully at the floor. She jumped and walked out, muttering under her breath about manners and speaking to his mother.

“Even Mrs Hudson thinks you’re a dick,” John’s voice inside his head mused thoughtfully. Sherlock pressed his hands to his ears as if he could block out the sound of his thoughts, snorted at the stupidity of the action, and then wondered if he truly was losing his mind.

******     

He solved most of the box within three days. By the time Mycroft stopped by again with another of his annoying top-secret cases, Sherlock hadn’t eaten since finishing the biscuits the day before, and hadn’t slept for almost 72 hours. He chased Mycroft from the flat with promises to sleep for at least a few hours before tackling the work Mycroft had given him, and was pacing the flat trying to make connections between a software engineer from Solihull and a civil servant’s pension fund when the new phone he’d acquired from his brother buzzed in his pocket. Whipping it out, he saw in surprise that it was a text from Mary.

_If you’re in, thought I’d pop round for a quick catch up? Mary x_

He replied quickly, confirming he was indeed in and would welcome her visit. He’d been able to keep the same number since his old phone had met with disaster in the fireplace, but John hadn’t been in touch. Why would Mary suddenly want to see him? There couldn’t be a problem or she would’ve called in a panic or simply turned up. Maybe she wanted him to help her choose the nursery’s décor? He’d pretended to enjoy planning the wedding, helping to choose flowers, bridesmaid colours and so on. In truth, Sherlock thought Mary’s taste ran a little too twee for John, and there had been a couple of occasions where she’d made a decision or comment that clearly annoyed him. Sherlock had held his tongue, not wishing John’s annoyance to be turned on him.

He was still pondering both the reason for Mary’s visit and the software engineer/pension fund question when she arrived. Her face was flushed from the cold, but her eyes were shining. As she walked in and greeted him cheerfully, Sherlock distractedly cast his eyes over her: had tea with the single mother across the hall this morning, still feeling some discomfort around him, probably related to the pregnancy deduction, took a cab here rather than the tube.

Mary gestured to John’s chair (no matter how hard he tried, Sherlock was still thinking of it as John’s), and Sherlock nodded, sitting down in his. Mary smiled at him, but it somehow seemed false and didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“So, I see you’ve been keeping busy,” she said, amused by the piles of paper, photographs and three open laptops scattered about the room. “Of course, Lestrade needs my help more frequently than he’d care to admit,” Sherlock replied, feeling some of his usual arrogance and confidence return.

She laughed, the sound odd and jarring, as though it didn’t quite fit in her mouth. “So what can I do for you, Mrs Watson?” he asked.

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing. John hasn’t mentioned you recently. I told him you’d be busy, and of course he is too.” She paused, looking at him intently. “He’s happy now, you know. I make him happy, you understand that, don’t you?”  Sherlock didn’t respond.

She cleared her throat, and stood to go to the kitchen.

 “You must understand, Sherlock, it’s not appropriate for him to be chasing all over London after you, at your beck and call night and day. I know it’s hard, but I also know you just want John to be happy,” she continued. Her voice, though friendly, carried something else in it that Sherlock noticed but didn’t pay attention to. He vaguely registered that she was making tea.

She’d visited with the intention of reminding him of his place in John’s life, obviously, he thought, but… Ah. It’s also guilt that’s brought her here. But what could she…? Sherlock deduced it immediately but kept his face neutral. John didn’t know, then.

Mary’s eyes darkened instantly, and Sherlock saw the deep, savage anger and hatred in them before she composed herself. Interesting, he thought. Oh, maybe that’s what the software engineer was trying to hide!

She walked back through carrying two mugs, and handed him one. Sherlock took a sip without thinking about it, his mind focused on tying up Mycroft’s loose ends, and what John’s reaction to Mary’s infidelity would be. 

 “I know, you know. I’m not stupid. I saw it as soon as you came back.” Sherlock frowned, saw what? What could she…

He felt the effects almost immediately, his mind becoming sluggish and slow. He tried to ask her what was going on, and all that came out was an indecipherable stream. His limbs became loose and heavy, and he could feel his posture slipping as he struggled to stay upright in the chair. He could no longer control his body as he felt himself sinking down, coming to rest on the cold, hard floor.

Suddenly Mary was leaning over him, all her false warmth stripped away, her face harsh and fierce. She was so close he could feel her breath on his face as she hissed at him: “You can’t have him. You can’t have John. He has a family on the way now. You let him think you were dead, for fuck’s sake! How can he possibly love a sociopath like you?! You’re just a _freak_.”

She snarled as she leaned over him, picking up his arm and letting it drop to the floor. He could feel her rolling up the sleeve of his dressing gown. “You broke his heart and now you can’t have him. You can’t have him. You can never have John.”

Sherlock wanted to tell her, to say that he never had John to start with. She won, she has his John, and John will always have Sherlock’s heart, his love, but he couldn’t form the words. He tried to sit up but she shoved him back down to the floor, her knee resting on his chest. The drug in his system made him sloppy and pliant, unable to react properly. She reached across and retrieved something from her bag, sitting innocently beside John’s chair. As she brought the small cylindrical object towards him, Sherlock’s eyes went wide and for the first time since Mary had arrived, he felt a stab of fear. Mary roughly pulled the sash from his dressing gown, and tied the tourniquet around his arm.

“Sherlock…” she said in a sing-song voice. When he didn’t reply she slapped him hard in the face, repeatedly. “Sherlock, you don’t tell him. You don’t tell John. I would lose him forever and I will not allow that to happen.”

Sherlock no longer knew if she was talking about her cheating, or his love for John. He felt the sting of the needle and the intense rush of the cocaine and heroin mix entering his bloodstream. Mary stood up, dropped the needle beside him and picked up her bag.

“ _Fucking freak_ ,” she sneered under her breath. Unable to leave without one last expression of her hatred, she brutally kicked him a couple of times in the side, then walked out.

******    

It had been a week since the last text from Sherlock (take note Mary, John thought sourly), and over a month since John had seen him. Mary was constantly checking his texts and emails, even though there’d been nothing _to_ check. She’d also been out more often with the girls, away almost every night this week. She was still acting a little oddly too, seeming to hold back touching or being near to him until she was sure there was nothing on his phone or laptop for her to worry about. John was finding her erratic affection baffling and annoying, but continued to grin and bear it. Maybe it was just the added strain a pregnancy put on their new marriage.

He’d tried to talk to her about it once, a few days ago, and it hadn’t gone well. He wasn’t any good at talking about stuff like this. Mary had listened to him stop and start a few times; then got angry at his inability to describe his feelings. That had made him clam up completely, and he glared at her from across the table. She yelled at him to just say what he was thinking, asked him why he wouldn’t share anything with her, and told him no wonder their marriage was already in trouble if he was this emotionally stunted.

That last part had really stung, as she’d known it would. When Mary had met John he no longer openly grieved, but he was still coming to terms with losing Sherlock. It was as if his guide rope had been cut, and he drifted aimlessly. He was just following a routine, going to work, coming home to a cold and empty flat. They’d met outside the surgery, talked a little and decided to go for coffee. Mary was also struggling, trying to cope after the messy break-up of a long-term relationship. They’d bonded over their shared loneliness, enjoyed each other’s company, and from there the relationship had developed quickly. John had thought that he could finally allow himself to care for someone again.  He’d felt needed, wanted again; and he had to keep that feeling somehow, or he’d lose himself in misery once more. Although they’d dated for a couple of months, and lived together mere days, he’d bought a ring and booked a table at a fancy restaurant.

Then of course, his dead best friend had waltzed in, announced he wasn’t dead after all, and John was cast adrift once more.  

John had let her rant, taken the brunt of her anger in stoic silence. When she realised he wasn’t going to react she started crying, apologising and trying to smooth over her outburst, but John had had enough. He left the flat and went for a walk, unwittingly heading for the park. It was familiar ground; he used to walk here when he living with Sherlock had become too frustrating and he had needed some air. He followed the well-trodden paths for an hour or so to calm down; then headed home. Mary had already gone to bed by the time he got back, and neither of them said anything more of the argument.

Now, John was bored. There was no other way to put it, he was bored. He missed Sherlock. He missed eyeballs on the kitchen table, fingers in the fridge, and mysterious chemicals in his tea mug. He missed clients, cases, crime scenes, and chasing suspects through dim alleyways and muddy puddles. He missed his gun at his back and his mad detective leading him all over London.

Over a quick lunch at his desk John made up his mind. He texted Mary to let her know he would be home late. He was only going by to check on his friend, he promised, he’d be back tonight. Mary texted back almost straightaway, she’d see him later tonight then. Have fun.

He tried to stifle the excitement in his stomach. He hoped Sherlock would be in, he thought about texting to let Sherlock know he would be dropping by. No, he decided, he’d try to surprise the daft git, even though Sherlock would know what he’d been doing every day for the last month simply by looking at him.

John put his phone away, and looked at the clock. 2pm. Three more hours.

******     

Mrs Hudson must be at her sister’s, John thought, as he made his way upstairs to 221B. He still had his key and had let himself into the building, thinking he would quickly pop his head around her door to say hi. The hallway was quiet and dark…maybe Sherlock wasn’t in after all? John swallowed the disappointment rising in his throat, and carried on into his old flat.

“Sherlock?” he called, no reply.

Well, that wasn’t unusual. Even if he was in, he could be buried deep in that mind palace of his and oblivious to the outside world. Baker Street still held that same smell, signalling warmth and comfort to John’s nose. He breathed it in deeply as he stepped into the sitting room. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he saw the outline of a body on the floor in front of Sherlock’s chair.

Something in his chest twisted sharply and he dove forward to the man slumped on the carpet. Sherlock was cold, dressed in a thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, his blue silk dressing gown pulled down and wrapped around his arms. John placed his hands on his shoulders, tried to shake him gently.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” he barely managed to keep the panic out of his voice. Sherlock groaned softly and mumbled. If he was groaning, then he was breathing, and John relaxed a little, going straight into army medic mode. He carefully rolled Sherlock to assess for injuries, checking his pulse and peering into his eyes. He wasn’t bleeding and didn’t seem to have any other wounds. That’s when John saw the needle, lying under the coffee table as if it had been kicked under there. A droplet of milky liquid mixed with crimson still clung to the tip.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed, despair welling up in his eyes. He gathered the detective into his arms, and reached back onto the chair to pull the rough blanket from the back to wrap around the shivering body. Sherlock was breathing shallowly, lips parted and drooping as he tried to take hold of John’s jacket. He was mumbling again, and John dropped his head to try to hear what he was saying.

“Juh… John…” Sherlock moaned in the back of his throat. “He can’t… You can’t… You don’t tell him… You can’t have…” Sherlock’s head lolled as he licked his lips and his fingers flexed against their hold on John’s clothing. “She…happy…she s’plained…family…not me…not me.”

Sherlock trailed off, scrunched his eyes closed and tears began to slide slowly down his face. John’s heart shattered and he stroked a thumb down those ridiculous cheekbones, catching the warm tears and smearing them across Sherlock’s pallid face. He cradled Sherlock closer, feeling the detective’s sluggish movements as he tried to curl up in John’s arms. John wanted desperately to absorb all of the pain, hurt, everything that had caused Sherlock to do this, to relieve the man he loved of ever feeling this way again. His mind reeled, wondering what could have possibly driven Sherlock back to drugs. Something that happened while he was away? John didn’t know, they hadn’t spoken of it, and John hadn’t seen his friend in so long. The weight of the guilt threatened to crowd into John’s chest, crushing his heart.

“Sherlock? What happened? What can’t you tell John?” he asked quietly. Sherlock moaned again, still sobbing softly. “Sherlock, you can tell me. Who explained to you?” John pressed his nose into Sherlock’s curls, trying to give him some comfort. Sherlock didn’t respond, and John shook him gently to rouse him.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me.” No response. John held his hand in front of Sherlock’s face, he was breathing but it had become even shallower and uneven, and his body was still cold, despite John’s warmth and the blanket wrapped around them. Reaching into his pocket, John calmly dialled 999 and requested an ambulance. He sat there, holding Sherlock, until it arrived.

******     

The ride to the hospital was the longest fifteen minutes of John’s life. The paramedics took one look at the set of John’s mouth, his stern expression, and allowed him into the ambulance. The beeping of the heart monitor did nothing to steady John’s pounding heart; he simply watched and held on firmly to Sherlock’s hand. He felt numb, and here he was, losing Sherlock again.

When the heart monitor blipped erratically then just droned, John was immobilised. The paramedic reacted immediately, starting compressions as John stared open-mouthed at the pale body of his love in front of him.

Then something snapped.

He didn’t realise he was screaming until he tried to take his next breath. He came back to himself as the paramedic was urging his colleague to hurry. John grasped Sherlock’s hand again and held it to his forehead. The numbness had spread to his limbs, and he fumbled as he tried to bring Sherlock’s hand to his mouth. He pressed his lips to the clammy skin, mumbling pleas and appealing to whatever power he could think of.

“Not like this, Sherlock, not now. Please,” he whispered. “Please, Sherlock. Don’t. You… can’t, not again, not like this.” The ambulance lurched as it pulled up in front of the hospital.

“Please, Sherlock. I love you.”

******     

The soft beeping and muted lights were supposed to be calming, but if anything just made Sherlock more annoyed. He immediately deduced he was in hospital, panic flooding into his consciousness as he realised a plastic tube had invaded his throat to assist his breathing. He could tell from behind his eyelids that the lights were deliberately turned low, but as he tried to open his eyes and raise a hand to the wretched tube in his throat the light in the room instantly blinded him.

Amid the wild beeping signalling his state of panic to anyone in the room, he heard a soft voice speaking to him, reassuring him, reminding him he was being looked after and to allow the doctors to help. His eyes fluttered closed again as he tried to control his mind’s frantic activity, and he focused on the voice. He heard the voice say that the doctor had administered something, Lorazepam, his brain helpfully registered in the background, to calm him while they removed the tube and allowed him to breath on his own again. He suddenly felt small, only a boy again, listening to the soothing tones he hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime. He gently drifted into a light sleep.

When Sherlock woke he was aware of the pain, but at least he was no longer intubated. He took a few deep, measured breaths, groaning as he tried to sit up. The immediate pain across his chest forced him back down, and there was a hand on his shoulder guiding him to lie back. He opened his eyes gradually, and the world swam slowly into focus. He took in his surroundings. Hospital bed, private room, scratchy sheets and blankets, brother at his bedside.

Mycroft was here, but not John. His chest twisted with pain again, only this time the pain gathered around his heart was emotional, not physical. He absolutely must get this back under control, the constant ache was draining his resources and leaving him hollow.

He sat up and regarded Mycroft coolly. His brother stood by the bed, retracted the hand from his shoulder and settled his features into calm detachment. Sherlock had seen the worry there, in his eyes, but felt too tired to spar about it. He did want to know if John was here, so he tried to ask. His throat felt raw and his voice didn’t seem to work, until Mycroft offered him some water through a straw. Ignoring the awkwardness between them Sherlock accepted and gratefully drank a few sips, feeling the cool liquid soothe him. When he thought he could, he tried again to ask about John. Mycroft immediately knew what was on his mind.

“Yes, he found you. In your flat. It seems you had taken a rather large dose of tainted cocaine, and were experiencing a very strong reaction. You almost slipped into a coma, and but for John’s impeccable timing you would have.”

Mycroft was trying very hard to be cross, to admonish Sherlock for his weaknesses. Sherlock could tell his brother wanted to remind him of his last trip to rehab, the last time he had sunk so low. Sherlock had been just out of his teens. Mycroft had been almost established in his supposedly governmental career and well on his way to cementing his position as indispensable to those in the higher echelons of power. He had been forced to handle his brother’s descent and squalid addiction quietly, and had reacted to Sherlock’s hospitalisation poorly. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to remember just how hard it had been for them to come back from that day, to repair their relationship just enough to forgive one another for mistakes and words they both regretted.

Mycroft was trying to hold onto his exasperation at his little brother’s relapse, but now his eyes just seemed sad. He gazed at Sherlock, his head tilted to one side as he carefully considered what to say next. Sherlock watched with interest; it was rare that his brother indulged in any show of sympathy of any kind. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Mycroft of course, could see him thinking this, and sighed heavily. Sherlock frowned, he thought back to what he could recall from before the tube in his throat. He remembered Mary, how she had injected him, slapped him and kicked him. His shame and disgust flickered across his face momentarily, then he resolutely pushed dear Mrs Watson from his thoughts.

He remembered talking to Redbeard, and he remembered a wailing sound and… oh God, screaming. Someone had been screaming, as if experiencing excruciating, heart-breaking agony. Had it been him? Had he screamed his throat raw and his voice to nothing, tormented by the emotions he could neither deny nor contain?

His eyes widened in fear, and Mycroft sought to silently reassure him once more, shaking his head. No, he hadn’t been screaming. So what had he been doing? Why was Mycroft still looking at him like that?

“You were mumbling, while you slept, little brother. You were trying to respond to something, I think. “I can say it.” That’s what you were trying to say, wasn’t it?”

Mycroft was keeping his voice soft, like he was speaking to a small child, and Sherlock was suddenly furious at being coddled. He just wanted to be left alone. Alone would protect him, as it always had.

Sensing the change, Mycroft stood and fastened his suit jacket. Any previous _sentiment_ in his manner was dropped, and Sherlock scowled at his retreating back, trying to force him from the room just with his eyes. Mycroft smiled over his shoulder as he made his way to the door.

“Remember, Sherlock. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. But then, when have you ever shied away from danger?”

With that, he swept from the room, leaving an infuriated and disconcerted Sherlock behind him.

******     

Sherlock’s dreams that night were of John.

He dreamed of Baker Street, of stumbling home after cases giddy and laughing. He dreamed of early Sunday mornings spent with newspapers and tea, sitting together on the sofa, Sherlock’s feet tucked under John’s thigh as they read and watched crappy telly.

He dreamed of John cooking, humming and singing to himself as he stirred ingredients with a wooden spoon. John, holding the spoon out for Sherlock to taste the sauce he’d made. Grinning when Sherlock approved. Handing Sherlock a corkscrew and telling him to open the fancy red wine Sherlock had been given as payment from a client who owned a vineyard. 

He dreamed of lying in bed beside John, them both naked, sleepy and warm. Sherlock curled around and over John, his arm across John’s firm chest as John stroked his back, up and down, eventually winding his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and gently rubbing them.

He looked up to see John smiling, John’s face open and happy as he gazed down into Sherlock’s heart.

As he watched, John’s soft grin faded, dissolving into Mary’s cold sneer. She laughed, a screeching and cruel sound.

Stop fantasising, she hissed at him. What happened to the cold, distant detective? This will never happen. You’re so fucking far gone! How can you expect John to want this? How can you tell him?

Sherlock tried to say it, tried to open his mouth but nothing would come out. He couldn’t make the words form, they died in his throat and on his lips. He couldn’t say it.

Mary laughed again, and Sherlock jolted awake, the monitors beeping wildly beside him. He waved away the harried-looking nurse who abruptly appeared at the door with an impatient flick of his hand.

Settling back down beneath the rough sheets, he allowed his misery to seep into the bed as he sank back into sleep.

******     

John sat in the hard plastic chair, staring blankly at the dull yellow wall of the waiting room. He hardly noticed when Mary walked into the room, and barely moved when she took his hand. He didn’t react when she said something about getting coffee and dropped his hand again. He stayed there, frozen, until he finally registered he was being watched.

Mycroft gazed at him from the doorway, leaning on his omnipresent umbrella. The elder Holmes was dressed immaculately, as usual, but his eyes gave away the smallest hint of concern. John was under no illusion that the concern there was directed towards him, but was warmed by the thought that, in spite of their fractious relationship, Mycroft did care for his brother in some way.

“So, Dr Watson, am I to understand that you found him?” Mycroft’s tone was brisk, but his expression was appeasing. John nodded, looking up to meet those sharp blue eyes. Mycroft sighed, and crossed the room to sit down next to John. He lowered himself into a plastic chair, and John couldn’t help but smirk internally at the pompous git’s discomfort.

They sat there for a few moments, neither one of them speaking, until John finally plucked up the courage to ask.

“Is…” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Is he..?” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“He’ll pull through,” Mycroft murmured, “You saved him…once more.” John felt relief wash through his body, and he sank into the chair, his head in his hands. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he mumbled.

Mycroft sighed again, and John opened his eyes to turn to the man next to him. Looking down at the speckled pattern of the linoleum floor, Mycroft stood and strode towards the door. As he reached it, he turned back and fixed John with an almost sympathetic gaze.

“I should tell you, his heart may be irreparably damaged.” John sucked in through his teeth, his brow furrowed in confusion, and he opened his mouth to ask Sherlock’s brother what the hell he meant. Mycroft had just said Sherlock would pull through, and John was in no mood to play cryptic riddle games with the British government right now. He was suddenly exhausted, and he just wanted someone to tell him straight for once. Mycroft quirked a small smile at John’s abruptly fierce expression, allowing a hint of sadness to show in his eyes before quickly recovering himself. John noticed it, but couldn’t even begin to interpret what it might mean.

Mycroft seemed to hesitate, then tilted his head and spoke softly.

“You misunderstand me, John. Sherlock will need some time to recover, but medically speaking, his heart will be fine.”

Then he was gone.

******     

Mary came back a little later without coffee after all, but John was too happy to notice or care. A nurse had been by to say that Sherlock was awake, and as John pulled Mary in for a hug he told her.

“He’s only gone and woken up!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around his wife. He could feel Mary smiling over his shoulder, and he looked into her face. “You, Mrs Watson,” he said with mock severity, “You are in so much trouble! His first word when he woke up? Mary!”

Mary’s eyes widened; and John blinked at the tiny look of panic that crossed her face so rapidly he thought he must’ve imagined it. She pulled him in close again, and he pushed the thought away.

“Have you been in to see him then?” Mary asked. John shook his head; the nurses wouldn’t let him in but had allowed him to stand at the door for a moment, just to see him. Sherlock badly needed to rest and John was happy to even have visually confirmed for himself that Sherlock was alive. The ache in his chest as he stood at the door was heavier than ever, and all he wanted was to rush in and gather Sherlock into his arms. Instead, he’d thanked the nurses and headed back to the waiting room. If this was as close to Sherlock’s side as he could be right now, this was where he’d stay.

“Well, we should make our way home then,” Mary said, “No reason to stay now he’s going to be fine.”

John frowned, “I’m staying until he’s awake again. They said that they’ll keep him in for observation for a few days but he’ll need someone at home, at the flat, to take care of him when he gets out of here. I told them I’m his doctor and he’ll be released into my care.” John’s mouth was set firmly, and he refused to look away from Mary.

“Besides,” John continued, “I want to ask him about what happened. I hadn’t seen him for a while, I know, but I had no idea he was even close to this kind of thing again. He could’ve called me. Instead, he mumbled something about a woman explaining things to him, then said your name when he first woke up. Anything you want to tell me?” He tried to keep his voice light, but the accusation hung in the air between them. Mary snorted, folded her arms across her chest and backed away. She raised her chin in defiance and her eyes dared him to push the point further.

John was never one to back down, so he mirrored her body language, increasing the distance between them even further. “What did he mean, ‘she explained’, was he talking about you?”

Mary just stared back at him, refusing to answer. John sniffed, trying to contain the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “Did you see him? Did you know he was having a hard time?” Mary tightened her mouth, her eyes flashed as she struggled with her own anger. John’s voice was quiet, but the menace unmistakable.

“What did you say?”

Mary laughed humourlessly and swung her arms open in a petulant gesture. She turned her back to him, and her voice was cold as she spoke.

“I didn’t tell him anything he couldn’t have already known, he shouldn’t have already known if he was even close to resembling a normal human being! I told him to leave you alone. I told him you have a wife and a family now, you are happy with me. I told him you are better off than you ever were with him, running around the city getting shot at and chasing fucking criminals like you’re invincible! You need to be with me, you’re happy with me, there’s no room for him anymore! There never should’ve been room for him anymore, he should never have come back and he should just back the fuck off and fucking _leave us alone_!”

Her shouting echoed in the small room. John was taken aback by her words, by the force with which she clearly believed she was in the right. He blinked, trying to process everything he’d heard. She’d seen Sherlock, had realised he was vulnerable in some way and viciously exploited it.

“How… how dare you?!” John was furious, but he managed to keep his voice low. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fist to regain some measure of control as the rage pushed up through his chest, up into his throat, up into his head, pounding and clawing at the inside of his skull.

“How dare you push away my best friend? How dare you push him so hard, cut him so deeply that he does _this_?!” He stabbed a finger towards the waiting room door. Mary remained defiant, but she subconsciously took a step back at John’s outburst.

“He would always have done _this_!” she cried, “He’s an addict, for fuck’s sake! You’re a doctor, you know what addicts are like! You see them every week!” She was pacing now, gesticulating wildly at the ceiling in her fury. “He would always have gone back to drugs, and you know it! He would’ve put our child in danger! He…” She stopped immediately when she saw the glint in John’s eyes.

“Get out.”

“John, please, you have to understand. I’m only doing what’s best for you, for us…for our family, John. _Please_.”

All of the anger was gone from her voice now; she was close to begging.

“Get out. I’m staying here until he’s awake.” John sat back down in the plastic chair, all his energy focused on staying perfectly still.

Mary let out a small sob; but then her previous fury returned. She grabbed her bag and marched out. John didn’t hear the bang of the door as it slammed shut, and he closed his eyes again.

******     

John didn’t go home that day.

He managed to persuade a nurse to give him five minutes to see Sherlock. When he cautiously opened the door, he caught sight of the detective as he’d never seen him before.

Sherlock was sleeping soundly, the soft beeps of the machines around him playing a strangely soothing melody. John stared openly at the man lying before him. Sherlock was so relaxed in sleep…so young. The sharp lines and planes of his face were smoothed, the fan of his lashes caressed his cheeks, a gentle halo of dark curls framing his features. In the dim light of the hospital room his pale skin appeared to John to be glowing. He looked breathtakingly beautiful.

John stifled a gasp and backed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Feeling a little silly at the poetry bursting forth in his head, he quickly thanked the nurse. She smiled at him, and told him he could sleep in the chair beside the bed if he wished. John was tripping over himself to find an excuse; he didn’t think he could spend another second watching Sherlock sleep without being rent in two. She rubbed his arm cheerfully, and found him a spare pillow and blanket so he could lie across the plastic chairs in the waiting room.

Everything he’d gone through with Sherlock in the past couple of days was weighing on him. Deep down, he knew there was no chance of ever having what he truly wanted. There were too many obstacles – his marriage, Sherlock’s health (both mental and physical at the moment), not to mention Sherlock’s ignorance of the depth of John’s feelings. He still couldn’t say it, even to himself.

That first night at Angelo’s echoed in John’s mind, a clumsy attempt to gauge his chances with the gorgeous detective he’d only known a short time. ‘Married to my work’ had been the response, and John had long since accepted that at best, friendship was all he could hope for. It caused him physical pain (psychosomatic pain, like your limp, his inner Sherlock helpfully supplied), to see Sherlock so much at peace lying there. John felt his heart splinter and crack, knowing he’d probably never see Sherlock so still again, when it was all he ever wanted in the world. Wrapping himself in the borrowed blanket, the dull ache which had started in his heart permeating his whole body, he eventually settled across the chairs and fell into an unbroken sleep.

******     

He didn’t go home the next morning, either. It wasn’t until Lestrade arrived, clapped a hand on his back and told him he looked fucking awful that John realised he’d been two days without proper sleep or a proper meal. So, this is what it’s like to be a high-functioning sociopath, he thought to himself sarcastically.

Mrs Hudson was overjoyed to see him back at Baker Street, even if it wasn’t under the best of circumstances. She’d laid out towels and some clothes John had left when he first moved out, a time that now felt like years ago. Once he’d eaten a quick bite and showered, John sat on the sofa, deliberately not looking at the carpet in front of Sherlock’s chair.

He knew he’d have to go back to his and Mary’s flat at some point; Sherlock would be out of hospital soon and John needed to get his things so that he could be here when Sherlock came home.

John and Mary hadn’t spoken since they fought about Sherlock, so he wondered what kind of reception he’d get when he turned up on their doorstep. Would she be pleased to see him, and try to reconcile? Or would she be jealous and angry again, and kick him straight back out?

Looking back, John realised she’d always been a bit volatile but he’d wilfully ignored it. It was only since Sherlock came back that she’d allowed her irrational side to really show, and demonstrated how manipulative she could be. Yet, for all her faults, John still remembered how kind she’d been, how understanding, how she’d made him laugh for the first time in ages. He might be incredibly pissed off with her, but on some level he could still love her. He could love her, but it would always be just a droplet in an ocean.

John sighed to the empty flat. No point putting it off any longer. He left 221B and headed back to the flat he never really thought of as home.

When he got there, Mary was in the kitchen, waiting for him. She threw herself towards him, wrapping her arms around him to pull him close. John couldn’t quite return the hug but allowed one arm to encircle her waist and pat the small of her back.

“I thought you might not be coming back,” Mary sighed, her breath tickling John’s ear. John stepped back from her embrace, and held her eyes. Her face changed instantly, from soft and happy to snarling and belligerent in a blink.

“Oh, don’t tell me. You’re going back to fucking Baker Street!” she hissed.

“Yes, I am,” John stated flatly.

“Why?! Why is _he_ so important?! What about me? _What about our child?!_ ” Mary shrieked.

John rubbed a hand through his hair, “We need some time apart, Mary. I just… I need to think things through.” He was doing his best not to yell back, that wouldn’t help either of them. They just needed some space, he thought, why can’t she accept that?

“You can’t walk out on me John; you’re supposed to be a good husband, a good dad! If you leave now, how are you any better than your own fucking degenerate father?!”

John stiffened; as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Mary was backtracking.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry John. I didn’t mean it. You know I don’t mean that. It’s just, it’s hurts me so much. You hurt me so much.” John refused to react, refused to rise to her manipulation. Sherlock may not love him, but John knew he cared in some way. He was not his father; no matter what Mary said. 

John walked calmly to the bedroom and packed a bag. When he came back through Mary was ranting, but John barely listened. He walked past her to the door.

“ _Why_ , why is he so important? You can’t see what he is, John. Why can’t you, why are you too stupid to see it? He doesn’t love you. I do. He doesn’t care about you, John, he let you think he was dead for fuck’s sake. How can you do that to someone you care about? He’s a sociopath, John. He’s a _freak_.”

That word caught John’s attention and he spun around, dropping the bag.

“ _Don’t ever call him that_ ,” he growled. Mary’s laugh was high and screeching.

“Even now you’re defending him! You’re a fucking idiot, John! See, this is why I had to intervene! I had to, you’re too thick and you’d keep going back to him, you fucking idiot! I had to tell him to fuck off, he knew! Or course he fucking knew, and he was holding it back, lording it over me! Just waiting for an opportunity then he’d ruin it. He’d ruin everything! I had to do it!”

“What?!” John interrupted. “What did you do?” His head was starting to hurt but he had to ask, he had to know. He looked at Mary.

“I didn’t do anything he wouldn’t have done himself, given half a chance,” she smirked.

John’s patience finally broke. “ _What did you do to him?_ ” he yelled.

She had gone quiet and still, a cruel smile playing about her lips. “I just gave him a bit of encouragement.”

At first, John didn’t understand. Then the truth of what she’d said began to sink in, and with it, the dull ache in his head increased to an unbearable thumping. He had to leave, get back to Sherlock. But he had to ask again, he had to hear it.

“What did Sherlock know?” he asked quietly. Mary didn’t reply. She rubbed her neck and looked away, her hands dropping involuntarily to her stomach. John saw the gesture, and it suddenly dawned on him.

“It’s not my baby, is it?” His voice was flat. Mary shook her head. She opened her mouth to explain, but John didn’t care.

He heard her say it was before the wedding; that it didn’t mean anything. It was just an accident, she’d been weak just that once and gone back to him for one night. He heard her bitter laugh when she said she hadn’t even told Sherlock, he’d just known.

John heard everything, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was getting back to Baker Street and getting drunk.

******      

Sherlock wasn’t there when John got back. There was a note from Mrs Hudson saying that Mycroft had stopped by, Sherlock was to stay with him for a few days while John got things straightened out. Mrs Hudson was going to her sister’s for the weekend.

John dumped his bag at the foot of the sofa and went to the kitchen for a glass. He’d walked over, too angry and frustrated to get a cab or try to navigate the tube. On the way he had bought a bottle of twelve year-old Glenfiddich, and he now intended to get as far through it as possible.

Settling into his old chair, he drank slowly and stared at the chair opposite. Its occupant was safe somewhere with his brother, and that was just as well. John had only brought misery to him since he’d married a crazy, jealous harpy.

Things had gone steeply downhill after Sherlock fell, John thought sullenly. He couldn’t blame Sherlock for any of this though; it was all of his own making. If only he’d had the courage to be open with Sherlock before maybe, if he could have just said it, if Sherlock could have just heard it…

Pointless speculation, he snorted. Here he was, here he’d stay. He’d wait for Sherlock, as long as it took. He’d waited before, never really believing Sherlock was truly gone. He’d wait, and he’d be there for his friend.  He would get his marriage annulled; Mary must’ve been pregnant before the wedding if she’d cheated, and now the baby wasn’t his. Maybe Mycroft could help speed that process up, so John could be free of her as soon as humanly possible. That’s if Mycroft wasn’t planning to have John disappear to protect his little brother.

John giggled, then laughed hysterically into the darkness. He’d fucked everything up so badly. He refilled his glass and laughed again. He lifted the bottle up to his face, and was surprised to see it was already half-empty. Mary might’ve been right after all. No different to his drunk, idiot father.

His laughter died in his throat and turned to bitter sobs. He got up from the chair and lay down on the sofa, pulling the same blanket he’d wrapped Sherlock in across his body. Lost in his misery, he eventually drifted into a fitful sleep.

******     

Sherlock was released from hospital after only a couple of days, having recovered enough strength to thoroughly piss off multiple shift changes of medical personnel by refusing further treatment as dull. The fact that he’d bitterly ranted about all of the cheating spouses, a near-bankruptcy, some supply pilfering and other sordid affairs occurring amongst the nurses and doctors was a mere detail.

He was to go with Mycroft, to take up temporary residence in his one of his brother’s spare bedrooms. Although he desperately wanted not to, he felt he couldn’t return to Baker Street just yet. The emptiness of the flat without John in it had made him feel hollow, and knowing that it would always be that way made Sherlock weary.

Sherlock was dropped off and informed his brother would be joining him that evening. Until then, he was to remain inside, the driver would “keep an eye on him”. He rolled his eyes at the man, dropped his coat sloppily on the floor and took in his surroundings.

Mycroft’s flat was old, grand and enormous. Its rooms were splendidly but carefully decorated, comfort and luxury without lurching into preposterous opulence. From the cavernous bathroom, well-equipped but slightly soulless kitchen, and delicately manicured rear garden, to the frankly outrageously huge and soft beds in each bedroom, magnificent marble fireplace and high bookshelves in the sitting room, Mycroft’s home was at once overbearing and welcoming. Sherlock both hated and adored it. He resolved to spend any time he was trapped here in “recovery” finding as many ways as possible to disrupt and annoy his brother. Starting with re-arranging those bookshelves.

When Mycroft arrived home Sherlock was on the sitting room floor, completely engrossed in examining a copy of Philosophical Transactions, edited by Thomas Henry Huxley in 1880. Sherlock could feel his brother’s exasperated amusement at the state of his bookshelves; Sherlock had pulled every item down and re-arranged everything into something resembling chaos on the floor, before finding the journal tucked away in a sealed plastic covering between a leather-bound OED and the complete works of Oscar Wilde.

Mycroft was lingering in the doorway and Sherlock reluctantly drew his attention away from the journal in his hands to turn and face his brother.

“A man was picked up today, a most unpleasant character. He was in possession of a high quantity of tainted drugs, matching the chemical signature of that which caused your recent need of our city’s finest medical care. He will be dealt with,” Mycroft intoned. Sherlock nodded.

“Is there anything else I should be aware of, Sherlock? Regarding this little incident?”

Mycroft was prompting him for information he already had. Sherlock was still and silent.

“Very well. If I become aware of any other parties involved, I will ensure they are dealt with appropriately.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. If Mycroft was aware of Mary’s actions, it was only because of John that he had not yet acted on the knowledge. Presumably because he knew that Sherlock would become even more difficult and uncontrollable in retaliation if John’s life was turned upside down. Mycroft may abhor the sentiment Sherlock had fallen victim to, but he could clearly see its effects on those around him.

Sherlock turned away, his focus reverting to the journal in his hands. He waited for Mycroft to leave, but his brother had one more fact to impart. 

“I should tell you, John has returned to Baker Street.”

Sherlock nodded slightly, his mind whirling as he tried to process this. Mycroft’s footsteps receded towards the kitchen.

“Please try not to damage that journal, Sherlock. It was a gift from the Australian ambassador.”

******

John woke with a thunderous headache. He had knocked over the Glenfiddich bottle in the night, and the floor was reeking of whisky. His throat was raw and his eyes felt like they were full of Afghan sand again when he rubbed them.

He sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples and groaned. First things first, he stood up and made for the kitchen to get some water. Rinsing his whisky glass, he filled it in the sink and took a long gulp. Grabbing a dishcloth from the counter, he staggered back through to the sitting room and mopped up what was left of the whisky before throwing the cloth in the bin. John rummaged in his bag for some clean clothes, leaving them on the floor for now, then took the bag upstairs to his old room. 

The room was exactly as he had left it. The curtains were half-drawn, allowing the overcast morning to fade through. The sparse furniture showed a thin layer of dust, but otherwise the room was spotless. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes and he scrubbed a hand down his face to cut them off. He left the bag on his old bed, hoping he would still be welcome here once Sherlock returned. Until then he would just clean up and pull himself together. Dimly, he realised he hadn’t called the surgery to tell them where he’d been the last three days.

He pulled out his phone and dialled as he walked back downstairs to turn the shower on. He had some holiday coming up anyway; he’d just ask Sarah if he could take it all now. Sarah was concerned, but John explained that he’d had a fairly major upheaval in his personal life and just needed some time. She was sympathetic but told him he should keep in touch. She warned him that he could take a couple of days but then he’d either have to come back or leave permanently. John hung up without responding.

The shower was blisteringly hot and John’s muscles thanked him for it. He felt better than he had in a long time when he finally shut the water off and dried himself roughly. Getting dressed in the bathroom, he wandered back to the kitchen buttoning his shirt, and let out a yelp when he saw Mycroft looming over the table.

“Oh, um, hi Mycroft…I was just…” John muttered. Mycroft simply smiled his oily smile and inclined his head.

“Dr Watson,” he crooned. John reached for the kettle and flicked it on. The sound of bubbling water filled the silence as the two men stared each other down. Finally, Mycroft broke the quiet.

“I am here to inform you that Sherlock is staying with me for the next few days. I assume you got the notification from Mrs Hudson.”

John nodded, Mycroft continued. “He has asked me to tell you that you are welcome here, John. Once I am sure he is well enough, he will come home.” John snorted; Mycroft was still a controlling bastard, even when he was trying to take care of his brother.

“Fine, but I doubt you’ll be able to make him stay put any longer than he wants to,” John replied.

“Indeed,” came a soft baritone from behind them both. John glanced around Mycroft to see Sherlock, leaning in the doorway with his coat hanging from his shoulders. Sherlock took a step forward, sweeping the coat from his frame and laying it carelessly on the sofa.

John was so pleased to see Sherlock, but was shocked as he took in how pale and wan he looked. He was staying upright, but barely. Sherlock stepped towards the sofa and stumbled. John was immediately at his side, holding his waist and gently guiding him to sit. He leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and studied the tip of his umbrella.

“Well,” he began, “As you seem incapable of remaining stationary for any length of time, I may require Dr Watson’s assistance to return you to the car.”

“You may require it, but you won’t have it,” John retorted. Sherlock huffed a laugh as Mycroft snapped his head up and narrowed his eyes.

“I fail to see how this is helpful,” he bit. “Sherlock, I brought you here to collect a few items then you were to return to my home for monitoring and rehabilitation. Get up, and come with me.”

“Oh, kindly piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, raising his arm to cover his eyes. “I do not need rehab, and John can monitor my recovery. He is a doctor, after all.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to bicker, then closed it again. He sighed heavily, “Dr Watson may be a reasonably competent doctor, but I prefer that you are cared for in appropriate facilities, Sherlock. You had a relapse. You require a specialist’s care.”

Sherlock lowered his arm and sat up as forcefully as he could manage. “I do not require ‘a specialist’s care’, Mycroft. I had…a minor setback. I am fine,” he spat. John was inclined to agree with Mycroft. However, the thought of Sherlock locked away in a white-corridor facility somewhere, bored to destructiveness, filled him with cold dread. At least here in the flat, John could monitor his condition and keep him occupied with simple cases; maybe he could get some cold case files from Lestrade as well?

“I am a reasonably competent doctor, Mycroft, and if my patient,” John announced acerbically, gesturing to Sherlock, “If my patient wishes to remain at home I will assume responsibility for his care here.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John, and then stared defiantly at his brother. Mycroft rolled his eyes, apparently defeated, and left without another word.

John looked down at Sherlock, who had leaned back and closed his eyes again.

“So…you ok?”

Sherlock hummed in response, and fell silent again. John hovered beside him, unsure of what to do. He was just thinking again about making tea when Sherlock got up and went to the kitchen. John could hear him clattering mugs together, and sank down onto the sofa, feeling lighter all of a sudden.

Sherlock came back through and handed John his mug, then lowered himself gingerly into his own chair. They sat and sipped their tea, neither man wishing to be first to speak. John saw Sherlock notice the empty whisky bottle still sitting on the floor, but the detective said nothing.

He finally forced himself to break the silence, as clearly Sherlock was too stubborn to do so.

“I…um, I stayed here last night. I wanted to be around when you came back. I hope you don’t mind,” John dropped his voice to a murmur, trying not to look up to avoid catching Sherlock’s reactions. He couldn’t resist stealing a glance at last, but Sherlock’s face was passive and unreadable.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, “John, you are always welcome here. I will never mind.” He looked across and met John’s eyes. “Welcome back.”

They smiled at each other and rest of the day passed in comfortable silence.

******     

John went ahead with the annulment, somehow managing to keep it from Sherlock and enlisting Mycroft’s help. It sped things up and meant that John didn’t have to see or speak to Mary. For her part, Mary avoided all contact except responding to the necessary petitions and letters. It’s all for the best, John told himself.

Sherlock slowly recovered, and was soon back to his usual self, dragging John on a few cases and badgering Lestrade and his team. John kept Sherlock’s relapse to himself, seeing it as Sherlock’s prerogative to share with whom with wished to know. He suspected Lestrade had found out, but the DI never expressed anything beyond his normal concern for Sherlock’s inconsistent behaviour. John thought it had to be difficult but admired Greg’s care for Sherlock’s reputation.

Things were almost back to normal, well, their version of normal.

Maybe this is enough, John thought. Maybe it’s enough for me just to have my best friend back. He tried to be satisfied; but the dull ache in his chest often returned at night when he dreamed of Sherlock sleeping in hospital, or when he woke with a sticky mess in his pants and Sherlock’s name on his lips. He did everything he could to keep it contained, to keep the words that threatened to pour forth in his mouth unsaid.

John never asked Sherlock about that night, never asked him what Mary had told him or done, but not knowing was slowly eating away at him. He was desperate to know why Sherlock had distanced himself after the wedding too; to John’s mind that’s when everything started to go to shit.

He resolved not to bring it up, but after a particularly tiring case involving a cheating wife, a faked pregnancy and a lengthy foot-chase through a dodgy housing estate, John suddenly couldn’t stand not knowing any longer.

He waited until Sherlock had settled down and eaten at least a few mouthfuls of pad thai. But before he could open his mouth, Sherlock got there first.

“Just ask, John. I know there is something you wish to know and your incessant thinking about it is becoming increasingly irritating.” There was no malice in Sherlock’s voice, and John tried to smile.

He took a deep breath, taking some time to organise his thoughts and work out what he wanted to say.

“Why did you stay away after the wedding?” he blurted, cursing his bull in a china shop brain.

Sherlock set down his fork, and looked at his plate. John watched him closely, but he wasn’t giving anything away. When he finally looked up, John couldn’t fail to miss the minute sadness crossing his face.

“I wanted you to be happy, John. When I came back, I…” he paused, and John could see the internal war being waged behind his eyes. John waited patiently for him to continue.

“I just wanted you to be happy, John. I know things between you and Mary have been difficult, but if you wish to reconcile with her, I will be supportive.”

John laughed humourlessly, the only time Sherlock had offered to be helpful and it’s way too late. “Well, that won’t be necessary. We’re getting an annulment. Should be confirmed very soon.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, and John smirked at the knowledge that the most observant man in the world was trying to figure out how that had slipped past him. John took another bite of his dinner, and watched Sherlock do the same. There was something else though. Sherlock had a distant look on his face, but not any of the ones John had come to recognise as mind palace foraging.

“What is it?” he asked casually. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Sherlock looked up sharply, and John suddenly noticed how tired he seemed. Once they’d finished their meals John was wrestling Sherlock into bed. His mind tried to play with that thought but John pushed away the warm coil unfurling in his belly. He needed to concentrate.

Sherlock started to say something…then snapped his mouth closed and his eyes glazed over once more.

“Sherlock?” John asked, more firmly this time. There was no reaction from opposite him.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, finally rousing the detective from his thoughts. “What aren’t you telling me? You have to tell me, right now. Whatever it is.” Sherlock still hesitated, and John started to feel frustration where desire had previously taken up residence.

“Ok, look. I know things have been, well, a bit shit. But I am tired of not knowing what’s been going on. Mary told me, you know. She told me about her ex, and the baby. That’s how I can get an annulment, rather than waiting a whole fucking year before filing for divorce. So whatever it is you’re not telling me now, spill it. I need to know.” John’s nostrils flared and he crossed his arms, prepared to dig in further and berate his exhausted flatmate if he had to. There was no way he wasn’t getting the full story.

Sherlock sighed, and took a deep breath.

“John, on the night that I…Mary came ‘round. She came to see me, and she wanted to talk about you. I invited her in…she sat in your chair. She told me you were happy. She said she was glad I was doing well, but that I should make sure not to crowd you both. I should understand that now you were married, your priorities would be different. Especially now there was to be a child in your lives.”

John snorted, but gestured for Sherlock to continue.

“As she was saying this, Mary made me tea. I admit it seemed odd, but I was partly distracted by a case I was working on for Mycroft, and what she was telling me…I wasn’t giving what she was doing my full attention. If I had been, I suppose it might’ve turned out differently…” He waved a hand to cut off John’s grunt of protest.

“I accepted the tea without thinking. As soon as I took a sip, I felt the effects almost immediately. I have four ideas as to where a suburban housewife might have obtained that particular substance, but that’s irrelevant. The point is: I was physically incapacitated but mostly aware.”

John’s stomach churned and he was seriously starting to regret waiting to finish eating before hearing this. He’d known Mary had been obsessive and paranoid, he had no inkling she would go so far as to poison his best friend. The look on Sherlock’s face stopped him in his tracks. _Oh God_ , he thought, _it gets worse_.

Sherlock smiled grimly, as if reading his mind. “I also have a few suspicions as to how she came to acquire the cocaine and paraphernalia, but I shall keep those to myself. It seems however, that she was not as diligent as a practised user like me would be, and….”

John’s stomach lurched.  He almost fell from the kitchen chair and stumbled blindly for the bathroom, hearing the concern in Sherlock’s voice as he heaved his dinner into the toilet. His wife had given Sherlock a very strong dose of tainted cocaine.

“Yes,” murmured Sherlock from the bathroom door. John hadn’t realised he’d spoken out loud. “It was contaminated.”

John lost the rest of his dinner.

“Oh God, Sherlock. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I brought this on you,” he despaired between retches. “Sherlock, I…I brought her into your life and she did _this_ …She did this to you. Fuck, I’m so sorry, Sherlock!” He flushed the toilet and looked up at his friend, standing just inside the small bathroom.

“John, you don’t need to apologise. I…I thought you were happy, John. I thought she made you happy. I’m sorry.”

“What?! What the fuck, Sherlock?! You have nothing to apologise for! This is all on me, this is all my fault.” John laughed bitterly.

“I wish I could say I didn’t know this about her when I married her. I mean, I wish I could. I knew, in some way, that she was a bit volatile but I never, _never_ , thought she was capable of something like this. _Never_ , Sherlock. I would never have…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say next. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d had some insight, some idea that Mary could be unstable, dangerous, even. It was part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. It was what he had been looking for in Sherlock’s absence, an adrenaline rush, something to make him feel alive again. She had been an appalling substitute. 

John looked up at Sherlock, gazing down at him sprawled on the bathroom floor, head propped on the loo. The expression on Sherlock’s face was soft, his eyes sad. John fooled himself for a second that he could see a longing there, but that was insane. He was just seeing what he wanted to see.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Truly.”

“I know, John.”

Sherlock turned away, and left John to wallow in his guilt. Deservedly, John thought.

******     

The letter was waiting for him on the stairs when he came back from Tesco. A non-descript, white envelope, bearing a grey and white logo in the bottom right hand corner. It lay innocently on the stairs, for all intents and purposes an innocuous communication from the courts. To John, it looked like a white slip of freedom, a paper version of the key to the chains and shackles Mary represented. He carefully set down the bags of groceries and picked up the envelope. He opened it slowly, and read the contents.

He didn’t remember walking up the stairs, groceries abandoned outside 221A. He found himself standing in the doorway, clutching the letter in one hand, his mouth hanging open.

He heard his mum’s voice in his ear: “Stop catching flies, John!” He closed his mouth with a click.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, a quizzical and amused look on his face. John gaped at him.

“John?” Sherlock asked quietly, and John suddenly saw it.

He saw it in Sherlock’s eyes in that moment, he saw it in Sherlock’s eyes the night he’d told John about Mary, he saw it in Sherlock’s best man speech, in his ridiculous attempt to make him laugh when he showed up in that restaurant.

How had he been so blind?! The realisation crashed over him like a wave, and he couldn’t hold back any longer. He rushed forward and raised his hands to Sherlock’s head, cradling his face. Sherlock looked terrified, his eyes wide, but he didn’t flinch and didn’t move away from John’s touch.

He rubbed his thumb gently over a cheekbone, as he’d done one painful night not that long ago. He had to be right, he could feel it in Sherlock’s body, see it in his frightened eyes, pupils dilated, he could feel it in Sherlock’s elevated pulse. This, this was what he wanted. This was what he needed. This was the man he loved.

“John?” Sherlock asked, still tentative and terrified but doing his best to control his face. Tears pricked John’s eyes. “I can’t say it.”

Sherlock dropped his gaze, but John wouldn’t let him move. Slowly, gently, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. The kiss was soft but John pushed as much feeling into it as he could. Sherlock froze for a second; then melted into John. When he finally pulled back, John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. They stayed that way for a long time, and John cherished every moment.

Sherlock had said it, so many times and in so many ways, but it had gone unheard. John wanted to say it, had wanted to say it so badly and for so long, but he didn’t. He let Sherlock feel it instead, in every kiss, every touch.

John will say it, he will, as soon as the words are able to leave his heart, his mouth, as soon as he knows Sherlock can and always will feel it.

It will no longer go unsaid, and no longer be unheard. 

******    

Sherlock was intently focused on the slide. The structures of the fructose and glucose in this specimen of honey was proving fascinating. Setting the slide aside and examining the next sample, Sherlock pondered creating an apiary on the fire escape. Mrs Hudson would object at first of course, but then she would bake with the honey his bees produced and Sherlock would indulge his sweet tooth.

John would also voice objections to tiny, flying insects setting up home outside his home but he would come round too, especially once Mrs Hudson brought them honey cakes and honey biscuits, and there was warm honey for toast. John would make him eat, even though he would undoubtedly consume all of the honey-related fare he possibly could without any prompting.

Adjusting the focus on his microscope, Sherlock smiled softly to himself. In the days that followed the revelation of the truth behind Sherlock’s relapse, things between them had cooled. Neither of them was willing to broach the subject again, but then neither of them seemed keen to hold any grudges. John had appeared disappointed and distant more than anything else, but Sherlock had determined to throw them back into the Work. Gradually, due in part to their constant proximity and the pull of the Work, things had become stable and they had regained a semblance of their former equilibrium.

John was back to coercing Sherlock to eat and sleep more regularly, Sherlock was back to dragging John out at all hours to race around all over the city. It was nowhere near the same as it had been all those years ago, when they first had met, but it was as much as Sherlock knew he could hope for. John had stayed, was still by his side. John, who was an endless puzzle to him - solid, strong and steady, but at the same time gentle, tender and infinitely caring to those who needed it. John was full of constant contradiction and layers of riddles, and Sherlock wanted to remain John’s friend as long as he could.

His thoughts were concentrated on honey-based patisserie, complex sugar molecules and John when he looked up and realised John had returned.

He was standing in the doorway, he had been to Tesco, obvious, but wasn’t carrying any bags. Apparently he had left the groceries at the bottom of the stairs. Odd, Sherlock thought. He was clutching a white envelope in one hand, the embossed logo in the bottom right hand corner just visible. The letter was from the courts then, meaning the annulment was completed.

That didn’t explain the expression on John’s face though, as he was gaping at Sherlock from across the kitchen. Frowning slightly, Sherlock ran back through the last few minutes to pinpoint what he had done to cause John’s shock.

Oh. Oh no, no, no, no! Stupid! Sherlock was beginning to panic, knowing what he had been thinking of and what John had clearly seen on his face. There was nothing for it but to carry on, hope that John would allow him some dignity and ignore it.

“John?” Sherlock asked quietly.

He had no time to react before John was striding purposefully across the floor and was there in front of him, holding his face.

Sherlock was terrified but was unwilling to move away from John’s touch, his body refusing to respond beyond the pounding of his heart at John’s closeness. The sensation was overwhelming, and Sherlock struggled to capture every second, every point of contact between him and John, the feel of John’s skin against his. Sherlock could feel the rough callouses on John’s hands, the steady warmth emanating from his body, the scent of John was filling his nose and sending sparks through his entire body. Sherlock felt intoxicated, the high caused by being this near to John infinitely better than any chemical high he had ever experienced.

“John?” he asked again, barely managing to keep the fear and anxiety from his voice.

John’s eyes are wet, he thought dimly.

“I can’t say it,” John murmured.

Sherlock felt his stomach plummet towards his feet and his blood felt like it had filled with ice water at John’s words. This is it, then, he believed, John is leaving, this is him saying goodbye. He’d known it was coming, one day, but he was still unprepared for the visceral reaction of his transport and the relentless racing of his mind. He dropped his eyes, no longer able to look into John’s wonderful face.

Then John’s lips were on his own and Sherlock’s brain screeched to a halt.

The kiss was soft but he could feel the strength of everything John was trying to express. It was astonishing and incomprehensible. John was kissing him, and all Sherlock could feel was overwhelming love.

When John finally pulled away to rest his head against Sherlock’s, Sherlock was unable to move, or speak, or think. All he could feel was John.

Sherlock realised he had said it so many times, in so many ways, without knowing that’s what he had been doing. John didn’t say it but Sherlock felt it, in every touch, every kiss.

He knows John will say it, and Sherlock can and always will feel it.

It will no longer be unheard, and no longer go unsaid. 

     

 


End file.
